encased in regular filaments, filedwith name and habit into fallthe autumn tresses stir and turnand lift about the eyes that burnwith some unfiltered, untranslated woethat withers in brief of heat and soundthe days that pass without the doorfalling into winter's wholeand dropping 'mong the graves of time(colding wind on colder rain)with passeth here without a stepor changing touch upon the ground;but look, the turning of the hingeopened silent and with carea massive oaken chamber baredto noise of light and press of eyethat gazeth into fire's heartwhich writhes the ceiling with roses bloomlike blood upon the wounded breastor perhaps water's soul, a silken pondwrought with heat and golded with brine,brine of oceans warm and bright—fire, the hidden inner corethe bud of the flower's faery doora guilded spree of bloom or goldof ocean large or siltpond mould among the rusted woods of oldamong the darkening age of old

lost among forests of black ink cloverscling like gold dust to the medieval turningsof an ancient clef, a cello-flowera mark among the cards at bowerqueen of clubs with eyes ashineglaring from her purfled shrineand passing among the hands of timedown the line, down the line

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